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'Tis not a Kiss you give, my Love!
'Tis richest nectar from above!
A fragrant show'r of balmy dews,
Which thy sweet lips alone diffuse!
'Tis ev'ry aromatic breeze
That wafts from Afric's spicy trees!
'Tis honey from the ozier hive,
Which chymist bees with care derive
From all the newly-open'd flow'rs
That bloom in Cecrops' roseate bow'rs,
Or from the breathing sweets that grow
On fam'd Hymettus' thymy brow:
But if such kisses you bestow,
If from your lips such raptures flow,
Thus blest! supremely blest by thee!
Ere long I must immortal be;
Must taste on earth those joys that wait
The banquets of celestial state.
Then cease thy bounty, dearest fair!
Such precious gifts, then, spare! oh spare!
Or, if I must immortal prove,
Be thou immortal, too, my love!
For, should the heav'nly Pow'rs request
My presence at th' ambrosial feast;
Nay, should they Jove himself dethrone,
And yield to me his radiant crown;
I'd scorn it all, nor would I deign
O'er golden realms of bliss to reign:
Jove's radiant crown I'd scorn to wear,
Unless thou mightst such honours share;
Unless thou, too, with equal sway.
Mightst rule with me the realm of day.